A Novel Concept - A death a day, MC will live anyway!-Chapter 397: Yet Another Sponsor

Three minutes later, Priam rose to his feet. He was far from fully healed, but his body could stand. With a vitality two hundred times that of an average human, those few minutes of stillness had given him the equivalent of a ten-hour rest.

“Well, that was dangerous,” he muttered, drawing the nearby flames into his Pyro cloak.

Had Esmée spent even a few more hours perfecting that trap, he would be dead. With [He Who Eludes Death] not primed, that fact should have terrified him. Instead, he found himself smiling.

Guess I’m an adrenaline junkie after all...

Pushing the thought aside, he stepped closer to the chest, raised a hand, and waited for a nudge from his instincts or his common rarity [Trap Detection]. Nothing. There might be a second, hidden charge, but Priam had no way of knowing short of using a test subject. Unwilling to sacrifice a soldier for that role, he chose to trust his gut and placed his hand on the armored door.

After one tense second of silence, he relaxed and summoned Pyro again, shaping it into a flaming gauntlet. The metal began to glow red, but refused to shift into orange. The safe held firm.

Priam harrumphed, then split off a parallel thought to gather the blood he had just lost using his kinetic proficiency. Most of it had been vaporized by the lightning bolt, but a few scattered drops remained. They fused into his gauntlet, temporarily intensifying the heat of his flames. Pyro is blood, blood is Pyro.

The metal flared orange.

“Okay,” muttered the Juggernaut, “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

Gathering his charisma, the attribute commanding feelings, he let his greed resonate with the dragon coiled within him. The supreme beast stirred in approval, but could not stoke the flames. They belonged to another bloodline.

Groping with his will, Priam reached for [Chimera]. If active skills were like new muscles, a Talent was closer to an instinct—harder to wield, but not impossible. Over the past month, he had made some progress in this endeavor. Indeed, after his duel with the cursed mage Clock, the System had offered him to glimpse a perfect fight using [Chimera]. A clue that the Talent could be used in an active way, if mastered.

His training had yielded modest results, but he had uncovered a few tricks. At its core, [Chimera] pitted conflicting elements against each other to exhaust their drawbacks. By rousing the dragon’s passion, Priam forced the Talent to awaken the phoenix to balance the two bloodlines. As Pyro was a creation of the first phoenix migrating to Elysium, a bond ran deep between the fiery bloodline and the Concept. Stirring one ignited the other.

The few drops of blood the Homo Elysian shared with that legendary bird began to ignite. Pyro roared to life.

Priam wrinkled his nose as a new scent joined the mix of burnt flesh and ozone. A smell he couldn’t name, but which came hand-in-hand with a shift in the safe’s hue. As though climbing a prism beam, the light emitted by the heated alloy went from orange to yellow, then yellow to white. A bead of molten metal dripped to the ground, quickly cooling into a glowing pearl.

Brow furrowed in concentration, Priam watched the first layer of the armored chest liquefy. While half his attention overheated the plating, a parallel thought used [Kinetic Sovereignty] to siphon off every drop of molten alloy.

A few minutes later, Priam’s arm jerked. The sudden lack of resistance caught him off-guard as the metal gave way to empty space. Snuffing the flames that enveloped his arm buried to the elbow, the Pyro Sage groped blindly.

His fingers soon closed on a box, which he gently retrieved. Most of the room’s bioluminescent fungi had perished in the lightning strike, but in the gloom, Priam could still make out what looked like a cigar case.

Inside, five pearlescent beads glimmered, alongside a single iridescent one

[Heroic Identification]

[Elixir of Eternity - Crude - 10 years] x5 -

A concentrated draught of liquid lifespan, both physical and spiritual.

Extracted and refined through a Wheel of Reincarnation.

No karma attached.

Usage capped at ten drops per Tier, regardless of quality.

Ocular instillation recommended.

[Seed of experience - Crude - Epic] - Distilled essence of holistic experience from a random System user who maxed out the associated skill. The breadth and depth of epiphany integration depends on the user.

Extracted and refined through a Wheel of Reincarnation.

No karma attached.

Cannot be used on non-soulbound, unique, broken, or apocryphal skills.

Variable compatibility with legacy, Depths, and alien skills.

Strongly discouraged for use with skills inscribed on soul-layers not created by the System.

“The equivalent of six Tribulations,” Priam whistled, then winced. “Aydan’s insane. Confiscating rewards like this from his soldiers… he’s asking for a revolution.”

Whether from short-sightedness or paranoia, the Empyrean prince was butchering the future of his troops. Yet, one man’s loss was another’s gain. Priam pocketed the six drops, pondering the second description. If he was reading between the lines correctly...

“The difference between a Seed of experience and a Minor Skill Epiphany is that I’ll be living another user’s experience. That’s interesting, but it mainly means the experience is already in this pearl. So the System already knows which skill I’m going to choose. Damn, that raises questions about free will and destiny... Unless it’s some bullshit like the System can act from the future on the past? Fuck, I don’t know what’s more terrifying…”

Uncomfortable with the idea that his freedom of choice might just be an illusion, Priam put the thought aside, and deciphered the warnings. The last one was particularly interesting.

‘Strongly discouraged for use with skills inscribed on soul-layers not created by the System.’

“Where aliens carve runes into their skin, bones, or core, the System inscribes skills on our spiritual layers. One per rarity tier,” he mused. “A trait plagiarized from dragons. When the description mentions soul layers not created by the System, is it referring to them? If so, is it a talent acquired at birth, or can I purify my bloodline to graft artificial layers onto my soul?”

A terrifying and exhilarating prospect—worthy of one of the three supreme bloodlines. At Tier 0, most people were limited to five legendary skills due to lack of space. If Priam could double that number with a bonus layer, catching up to Arnold would no longer be a dream.

Of course, it seemed too good to be true. His mentor had been generous with information about dragons, and the phoenix phantom had never mentioned such a possibility.

“If it does exist, it must be limited to purebloods, and I won’t reach that level before high Tier. By then, I’m not even sure it would still matter…”

In low spirits, the Champion made his way back to the Y-intersection and turned left. At his very first step, his blood stirred. A worthy opponent was waiting. And he wasn’t the only one who felt it.

A roar made the walls tremble. The Sun Wyrm was issuing a challenge.

A door opened a few meters ahead. Two half-dressed soldiers spilled out, weapons drawn, eyes scanning for threats in the wrong direction.

“What the hell was that?”

“An invitation,” replied Priam, before riding his mist. He reappeared behind them, seized their shoulders, and hurled them back into the dormitory before stepping in himself.

For a brief second, Priam thought he had stumbled into a boy band audition. Without helmets or mail, a hundred Empyreans flashed Hollywood teeth and abs that would put Superman to shame. Most hadn’t been awake for twenty seconds, but their hair was already perfect.

“You guys should consider starting a K-pop group.”

Unimpressed by the musical advice, the half-naked company lunged at him in a chorus of manly war cries.

Far from concerned, the Juggernaut funneled a third of his aether into his ocular meridians.

Lvl Up: [Adaptive Golden Meridians] lvl 32

META (Focus) +3

META (Endurance) +6

His left eye turned as black as the vacuum between the stars. Hecate’s New Moon was awakening, and hope was dying. A pulse of shadow unfurled from him, engulfing the room. In the now monochrome world, the soldiers’ skills flickered out, the curse freezing aether and Concepts alike. A magical EMP.

The horror on their faces deepened as the eldritch power entered its second phase. The Moon’s spiritual and physical gravity crushed their bodies and souls alike.

One hundred soldiers collapsed like puppets with cut strings, plunged into a soulish coma. Protagonist of the black and white nightmare, the Juggernaut heard no sound as weapons clattered to the ground.

Priam wiped a tear of blood from his cheek and closed his left eye. Reaching inward, he invoked [Chimera] once more, lulling the curse back to rest.

This tale has been pilfered from novelbuddy. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Well, that went better than last time,” he smiled as color seeped back into the world. “No blindness.”

At Tier 0, the Juggernaut had amassed an impressive arsenal. Many of his tools could accompany him through the long haul, if only he could master them. Some powers, like his phoenix bloodline or Heroic Aura, demanded the slow accumulation of experience, battle, and epiphany. Others needed to be tamed, bridled, and made his. I’m talking to you two, draconic heritage and Hecate’s New Moon.

That had been his focus for the past month.

Priam didn’t yet fully grasp the scope of the lunar curse, but he knew Moons were a recurring theme. So long as he kept moving forward, the Concepts would ensure the answers appeared in his path. He didn’t particularly like that arrangement, but was too weak to have a say.

One thing was certain: Hecate’s New Moon was a powerful tool, and he intended to control it.

Inspecting a body, Priam confirmed the guard was merely unconscious before heading toward a door at the back of the dormitory. Beyond it, he found a command room that doubled as private quarters—likely Esmée’s uncle’s. A quick sweep yielded nothing remarkable, save for two maps: one of Elysium, and the other of Proxima. Pocketing his meager loot, he retraced his steps back to the corridor.

Thirty meters ahead, the hallway opened into a small, circular chamber with three doors. A faint scent of leather and old parchment wafted from the one on the right. Priam tested the handle and stepped into a small library, which he proceeded to loot without hesitation.

Throughout his life, he had been an avid reader, his thirst for knowledge resonating with his curiosity. He hadn’t had much free time since the Tutorial, but he hoped the future would be kinder to his hobbies.

“Treatise on the Nature of Aether... Interesting. About aether Saturation and Mutations. Sounds horrifying, but I’ll take it,” he muttered, tossing the book over his shoulder. There, floating in midair, was a small portal leading to Concepts Archipelago. His Talent was the wet dream of any thief.

Three shelves later, Priam bent low and retrieved the final volume. “Arhsath and the Forty Sorceresses, Illustrated Edition.”

He hesitated, flipped through a few pages, and took it. He had never read a well-written harem story in his life, but refused to see a piece of culture disappear. The preservation of all knowledge was a serious matter.

Leaving empty shelves in his wake, Priam retraced his steps. Two doors remained, and he chose the one straight ahead. As he turned the handle, he froze.

He stood in a spartan bedroom furnished with a small bed, a rudimentary desk, and a meager wardrobe. The identity of the room’s owner was further betrayed by a light floral fragrance and a galaxy of runes swirling under the ceiling.

Priam stopped short, awed by the beauty of the construct. Far from rivaling Vertex’s mosaic, the ritual was nonetheless breathtaking in its complexity, elegance, and the hope of freedom it radiated.

“Esmée…” he whispered, admiring the formation whose function eluded him.

Time was short, but the mage remained still, imprinting every shape, placement, and trajectory of each sigil into his perfect memory. His ears recorded the sounds, his nose the smells, his eyes the light variations, and his Domain captured the rest. [Ideal Aether Perception] enhanced every sense to faithfully register the construct’s model.

Lvl Up: [Ideal Aether Perception] lvl 43

META (Affinity) +3

META (Perception) +6

A thunderous roar echoed in the distance.

It took a second draconic call to pull Priam from his contemplation of the artwork. It was not too strong a word. Esmée wasn’t just an aether architect, she was an artist.

Only, instead of painting the world or composing music, the Author rewrote reality with magic.

After a brief hesitation, Priam decided not to destroy the runic galaxy, if only out of respect for the art. He left the room without searching it. Respect was the foundation of any meaningful relationship. Of any kind.

“Good thing I have zero respect for Aydan,” he smirked as he entered the last room: the prince’s quarters. Or rather, the antechamber.

It was a waiting room, watched over by two guards who clearly had been expecting him. They could have barricaded themselves in the royal chambers, but they hadn’t.

“Tough following stupid orders, huh?”

Priam wasn’t expecting an answer, and didn’t get one. The smaller soldier lunged at him while the larger one covered with a crossbow.

Ten seconds later, Priam was tossing both crossbow and bolts into his internal world. Nudging the two guards—who would wake with massive headaches—aside, he inspected the door. The royal bedroom had to be trapped. Yet [Trap Detection] pinged nothing. The common skill was useless.

Sighing, Priam decided to abandon subtlety. A kick splintered the lock, sending the door crashing inward as a fireball hurtled toward him. The Pyro Sage smiled before swallowing the projectile. He could imagine Esmée swearing to her brother that the First would die seeing that trap.

Die laughing.

Entering the prince’s quarters, Priam raised an eyebrow. He had expected opulence, maybe some theatrical villain flair. Instead, Aydan’s bedroom was classic, almost intimate, if one were to disregard the royal carpet with its black and gold. A massive bed dominated the center, its base an enormous mirror.

“Handy for admiring yourself while fucking. Real Patrick Bateman vibes.”

One wall held a wardrobe displaying a refined selection of luxury clothes, basic sex toys, and weapons. The whip rack made a seamless transition between the last two categories. Disgusted, Priam closed the wooden panel with a grunt.

The final point of interest was a neatly arranged desk. A quick search revealed accounting documents, hundreds of military reports, and a diary.

Curious, Priam sat on a cushioned chair and flipped through the find. It was encoded, but his add-on decrypted the cipher in seconds. Time was running out, but his heightened perception and quick wit allowed him to read and comprehend a page per second.

From the first entries, the Champion was hooked.

...

The army lies under my command. The disappearance of Father and my brothers presents an extraordinary opportunity—though not without its challenges. Some of the Nobility question my authority. Others concern themselves solely with this so-called Tutorial. I cannot simply dismiss their anxieties. Only those who selected the Normal, Hard, or Perilous difficulties remain here. Will they ever return?

My advisors counsel patience before I claim the crown. I would do well to heed them. Should Father return and find me seated upon his throne…

…

A fire ravaged the Ministry of the Interior, leaving no survivors. The minister, responsible for logistics, had uncovered the uncomfortable truth: our stores of aether crystals are woefully insufficient—barely enough to transport a quarter of our populace outside this Tutorial. The fool attempted to blackmail me.

I ordered every last reserve loaded aboard Galactus-II, the mothership of our stellar armada, and relocated my provisional government there. One by one, noble houses now pledge their allegiance, hoping to secure passage.

The future looks resplendent.

…

The Tutorial ended. Father has returned.

…

Proxima is a strange world, its gravity greater than that of Empyrea. The System’s attributes, paired with my training, renders the experience tolerable. Not all are so fortunate. I still laugh at the image of the fat Constantin forced to move about in a litter. Such indignity for a noble.

…

There is a shortage of women. Most of those simpletons selected the Free or Easy difficulty. Beyond the unrest spreading among the ranks, this signals an impending demographic crisis—just as we prepare to colonize an entire planet. Father is furious.

…

The Reunion has begun. The System’s ability to terraform a moon makes mockery of even our most sacred rituals. I was raised believing my blood was divine, yet I find myself beginning to doubt. Could it be that, after all these years, propaganda has succeeded in deceiving even the ruling class?

And if that is true, how many other truths I hold as self-evident are merely well-worn lies?

…

The lunar station has vanished. We have no means of contacting our fleet, not even the smallest vessel. I lift my gaze toward Empyrea, drifting alone in the black sky. I may never set foot on my homeworld again.

…

My sister conquered the Impossible Trial. She returned bearing news of my brothers’ deaths. After nearly twenty-four hours of torturing her under the geas, Father finally believed her.

I am the Crown Prince.

…

Esmée is our Champion, sponsored by [REDACTED]. According to her, this signifies that her fate is bound to that of our civilization—and vice versa.

What a disgrace to our race.

Father hesitated to have her executed, but she persuaded him that her death would incur penalties upon our entire people. I suggested we sever her arms and legs to appease the nobles, but he refused.

Taking a deep breath to mask his disgust, Priam reread the passage. Esmée’s sponsor was written in classic black ink, yet no matter how many times he tried, his mind refused to register the word. Just attempting to spell it out, letter by letter, triggered a crippling dyslexia. That level of reality-warping could mean only one thing.

“Her sponsor is a Candidate too,” he murmured, then corrected himself. “Was. Either they failed spectacularly at the final stretch, or the Concepts finished the job.”

This changed a lot, particularly regarding the danger posed by his rival. Then, a sudden thought struck him.

“Did she strike the same bargain I did? Shit, that would explain why neither Jasmine nor Kazuki have a sponsor. Seven Concepts for seven Candidates who refused to accept failure… and seven Champions sent to clean up their messes.”

Status:

PHYSICAL:

Strength 1 253

Constitution 2 181

Agility 1 652

Vitality 2 132

Perception 994

MENTAL:

Vivacity (D) 666

Dexterity 985

Memory 1 208

Willpower 1 298 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

Charisma 998

META:

Meta-affinity (O) 1 446 (+3)

Meta-focus 889 (+3)

Meta-endurance 1 625 (+9)

Meta-perception 871 (+10)

Meta-chance 1 089

Meta-authority 927

Potential: 33 779 (+6)

Tier 0

[Tribulation]: Five Tribulations pending.

Next thresholds: 12 attributes > 1 200 / 3 attributes > 1 800 / 1 attribute > 2 400